There wasn't anything to say to that; it sounded reasonable enough. So I said, “I understand you met Crane while he was researching a book.”
“That's right. He sat through a narcotics trial at which I was assistant defense counsel-a similar case to one in a novel he was writing at the time-and we struck up an acquaintance.”
“How did you happen to become his attorney?”
“A short time after we met, a woman in Menlo Park began harassing him, claiming he had stolen her idea for one of his early Johnny Axe novels-I don't remember which one. Nothing came of it; I persuaded her to drop her notion of a plagiarism suit.”
“I'll bet you did. What was her name, do you remember?”
“Tinklehoff. Maude Tinklehoff. No one could forget a name like that.”
“Did she make any other trouble for Crane?”
“I hardly think so. She was in her late sixties and suffering from cancer; I believe she died a short time after my dealings with her.”
“How long before his suicide was this plagiarism business?”
“At least two years. Perhaps three.”
“Did you ever do any other legal work for him?”
“I drew up his will.”
“Uh-huh. Who got the bulk of his estate?”
“His wife, of course.”
“You mean Amanda Crane.”
“Certainly.”
“Did he happen to leave you anything?”
This question didn't faze him either. “Nothing at all.”
“Did he leave anything to either of his ex-wives?”
“No. He wasn't on speaking terms with Michael's mother, Susan, and he had long since fallen out of touch with his first wife.”
“Ellen Corneal.”
“I believe that was her name, yes.”
“Did you know her?”
“No. Nor Susan, if that's your next question.”
“Do you know what happened to Ellen Corneal?”
“I have no idea.”
“Amanda Crane seems to think her husband was married just once before her,” I said, “to Kiskadon's mother. Why do you suppose that is?”
He frowned at me around the nub of his cigar. “How do you know what Amanda Crane thinks?”
“I spoke to her this morning in Berkeley.”
For some reason that made him angry. He came bouncing up out of his chair and leaned his face to within a couple of inches of mine and breathed the odors of bourbon and tobacco at me. I stood my ground; I wasn't about to back down from the likes of Yank-'Em-Out Yankowski, bad breath or no bad breath.
“I don't like the idea of you bothering her,” he said.
“Why should my seeing Mrs. Crane concern you?”
“She's a sick woman. Mentally disturbed.”
“So I gathered. But if you're so worried about her, how come you haven't been to see her in years?”
“That is my business.”
“The reason wouldn't be that she turned you down when you proposed to her, would it?”
His eyes went all funny, hot and cold at the same time, like flames frozen in ice. He put his free hand against my chest and shoved, hard enough to stagger me a little. “Get out of here,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “And don't come back.”
I stayed where I was for a time. I was afraid if I moved it would be in his direction, and taking a poke at a seventy-year-old shyster lawyer in his own back yard would be a prize-winning act of stupidity.
“I told you to get off my property. Now! ”
“My pleasure, Counselor.”
I put my back to him and went out through the gate, leaving it wide open behind me. Inside the house I could hear the dog making growling noises, but they weren't as vicious as the ones I'd just heard from Yankowski. Pit bull-yeah. Sniff around, sniff around, and then right for the throat.
Whatever that thing in the house was, its master was a far nastier son of a bitch.
FIVE
Kerry and I were having dinner when the earthquake happened.
It was a little after six-thirty and we were in a cozy Italian place that we both liked-Piombo's, out on Taraval near Nineteenth Avenue. San Francisco's best restaurants aren't downtown or at Fisherman's Wharf or in any of the other districts that cater to tourists; where you find them is in the neighborhoods, residential and otherwise. The chef at Piombo's makes eggplant parmigiana and veal saltimbocca to rival any in North Beach, and at two bucks less a plate.
We had just ordered-the eggplant for Kerry, the veal for me-and we were working on our drinks and I was telling her about my new case. I hadn't told her yet about dinner tomorrow night with Eberhardt and Wanda; I was waiting until her stomach was full, because I figured then she'd be less inclined to throw something at me. As it was, she was in a twitchy mood: one of those days in the advertising business-she worked as a copywriter for the Bates and Carpenter agency-that “make you want to get up on a table and start screaming,” as she'd put it.
Her drink was a martini, which was a good indicator of just how wired she was; she seldom drank anything stronger than white wine. She had already knocked most of it back, to good effect: she wasn't nervously toying with her olive anymore and her face looked less tense in the candlelight. Piombo's is an old-fashioned place with big, dim chandeliers and gilt-framed mirrors and one stone-faced wall full of niches stuffed with wine bottles; the candles are not only romantic but necessary if you want to see what you're eating.
Candlelight does nice things for most people's features, and it does especially nice things for Kerry's. Puts little fiery glints in her auburn hair. Makes her chameleon green eyes shine darkly and her mouth look even softer and sexier than it is. Subtracts ten years from her age, not that forty is an unattractive age and not that she needs those years subtracted. Handsome lady, my lady. I wouldn't have traded her for five Hollywood starlets, Princess Diana, and a beauty queen to be named later.
She was sitting with one elbow on the table and her chin propped on that hand, giving me her rapt attention. My business always interested her-too damned much sometimes, as I had cause to rue-and she found the Harmon Crane matter particularly intriguing because of the pulp angle. Like Crane, both of her parents had been pulp writers. Ivan Wade had written horror stories-still did-and as far as I was concerned, was something of a horror himself. Cybil Wade, surprisingly enough for an angelic little woman with a sweet smile, had produced a substantial number of very good Black Mask — style private eye yarns under the male pseudonym of Samuel Leatherman.
So there we were, Kerry with her martini and me with my one alloted beer, discussing Harmon Crane while we waited for our minestrone. I was just about to ask her if she thought her folks might have known Crane-and then the shaking started.
It wasn't much at the beginning; and my first thought was that one of the big Muni Metro trains was rumbling by outside, because Piombo's is on the L Taraval streetcar line and you can sometimes feel the vibrations of the Metros' passage. But instead of diminishing after a couple of seconds, the tremors gathered intensity. Kerry said, “Earthquake?” and I said, “Yeah,” and we just sat there. So did everybody else in the room, all of us poised, diners at their tables, a few people on stools at the bar, the barman and the waiters and waitresses in various freeze- frame poses-waiting.
The tremors went on and on, still sharpening. Ten seconds, fifteen-each second stretched out so that it seemed like a full minute. Silverware clattered on the tables; glasses hopped, spilling beer out of mine and knocking
